"See! here come the midgets,"[1] said he, pointing to them; and, shading his eyes, he looked at the sun.
Twice more they went across the field, and then the old man stopped.
"Well, barin, dinner," said he, in a decided tone.
Then the mowers, walking along the riverside, went back through the windrows to their kaftans, where the children were waiting with the dinners. The muzhiks gathered together; some clustered around the carts, others sat in the shade of a laburnum bush, where the mown grass was heaped up.
Levin sat down near them; he had no wish to leave them.
All constraint in the presence of the barin had disappeared. The muzhiks prepared to take their dinner. Some washed themselves, the children went in swimming in the river, others found places to nap in, or undid their bags of bread and uncorked their jugs of kvas.
The old man crumbed his bread into his cup, mashed it with the shank of his spoon, poured water on from his tin basin, and, cutting off still more bread, he salted the whole plentifully; and, turning to the east, he said his prayer.
"Here now, barin, try my bread-crumbs !"[2] said he, kneeling down before his cup.
Levin found the soaked bread so palatable that he decided not to go home to dinner. He dined with the old man, and talked with him about his domestic affairs, in which he took a lively interest, and in his turn told the old man about such of his plans and projects as would interest him.
He felt far nearer to him than to his brother, and he could not help smiling at the affection which he felt for this simple-hearted man.
When the old man got up from his dinner, offered
